


and i'll try to fix you

by IronButterfly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Post Season 3, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:18:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronButterfly/pseuds/IronButterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's had trouble sleeping ever since his dramatic return. But it's only after he's woken up from a certain nightmare, that he realizes he hasn't quite told John about everything that happened on his time away. Including being taken captive by a throng of Serbian soldiers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i'll try to fix you

**Author's Note:**

> This is just an idea that's been circling in my mind for a while, and I had to write this. There's gonna be a lot of angst, a considerate amount of fluff and did I say angst? So, yeah. This story is not betaed, and all the mistakes are mine.

Sherlock knew, before he had been in Serbia, three hours, that they meant to murder him. With his unkept facial hair and his bitten nails, his manner cynical and nervous, anybody could tell he didn't belong in the picture. And the soldiers noticed it all too easily. They came in by train, stepped off in bewildered multitude into fresh and glittering air and, well, all was a blur after that.

  
He remembered being knocked down through the first two minutes of the chase (which was of no use to his ego) with his head colliding painfully against hard ground.Then there was this man; barking out a laugh, spatting orders at him, commanding him to get up and start moving. And he sounded almost like Moriarty; taunting and deadpanning, and it was definitely not high on the list of thoughts, Sherlock appreciated having. 

  
The detective rose. His hands were shaking. This was his reality now: the nasty grin of the soldier, the searing cut across his forehead, life going out with the blood in pain. He was being seized by his shoulders, and the ground began moving under his feet, and only the thought of where they might take him, while he was unconscious, saved him from fainting. But even the common pride, the instinct not to make a scene, remained overpoweringly strong: embarrassment had more force than terror, it prevented him from crying his fear aloud. It even urged him to go quietly.

  
Then began the beating, some very grimy beating. And in no time, he found himself rambling in Serbian, trying to get rid of his main captor. He barely registered what he was saying; something that possibly had to do with the soldier's cheating wife...

  
But his plan didn't seem to be working.  _His_  plan was to provoke the man into averting his attention from himself. The soldier moved closer to him, all the same, baring his teeth in a snarl and raising a hand, revealing a crop in his grip.

  
Sherlock screamed through the thick silence of the basement as the leather struck his back and tore into his flesh. He could feel the blood trailing down from the fresh wound and flailed in the grasp of the ropes; keening and trying to get free.

  
But cold, harsh hands held him still and not one second later he was once again choking on his own air, as there came another blow and then another and...

  
Soon his ears began to perceive sounds, once again, which was almost startling for the poor detective. "-lock. Sherlock! It's alright, you're safe. I'm here, it's alright!"

  
Even as Sherlock registered that John was talking to him and was on the bed, right next to him, holding him, he didn't seem to be able to fully awake from the dream, too overwhelmed by the memories to do anything else but try to get away from the touch.

  
But then the bedpost let out a loud ugly squeal, when John shifted his weight, trying to pull the detective closer, and Sherlock started on the bed and began clutching at John, unashamedly.

  
 _John_.

  
Oh, his dear, loyal, beloved John was there. Always there. And somehow, the only sight of those two gentle, but concerned eyes, was what became his undoing, and Sherlock buried his face in his hands, helplessly trying to hold back a sob that was threatening to escape his shaking lips.

  
Hands located themselves on his lean shoulders; steadying, reassuring, comforting, and pulled him in against warm skin. Sherlock grabbed at John's forearms and turned his head, pressing into his doctor's chest, breathing.  _Johnjohnjohn_...his John. He smelt of soap and tea: comfort and peace and a slow sleepy physical enjoyment, a touch of the clinic and something remarkably  _John_. He could so easily narrow the world down to only and only John, with just the scent of the man. A simple confirmation of the doctor's calming presence.

   
A soft, tentative hand brushed down his neck, stroking through his locks in the process. The touch electrifying and breathtaking even after three months of being together. Familiar, yet so new. It felt as if his blogger was surrounding him in a warm cocoon of warmth, care and protection. Sherlock sank back against John, as the latter pressed his lips to the detective's temple, murmuring sweet inaudible things. 

  
Soon enough Sherlock felt the tension leave him completely and when he thought he was ready to face his boyfriend, he saw John's gun, resting innocently on the edge of the bed, it, apparently being the first thing John had thought to grab while rushing out to his rescue. The good, good man. And Sherlock almost couldn't help the small amused smile that appeared and instantly disappeared off his face.

  
John, as if sensing his line of thought, grinned against his temple and tightened his arms around the skinny man. 

  
"You sure there's nothing I can kill for you?" 

  
The teasing but almost disappointed question drew an incredulous laugh from the detective. It all made him even more relaxed.

  
"I'm afraid, no. " Sherlock said groggily, hesitating and thinking if John would appreciate some distance, but the doctor only pulled him closer, when he tried to move away. "I hope there won't be another throng of Serbians as mundane as that one."

  
"Moriarty's men, you mean?" John frowned, after a surprised moment of silence. "The ones you were tracking down...But, they're all gone. Said so, yourself. And I trust you on that."

  
Hearing the words come from the good doctor's mouth was a relief. It truly was. As if Sherlock couldn't fully believe himself that it was all in the past now. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. God was he exhausted, but surely much better than before. 

  
"Thank you." he mumbled under his breath and leaned more towards his better half.

  
For a moment John looked at him, stunned, then smiled fondly and bending a bit, dropped another soft kiss on the younger man's forehead. "Anytime, love." he then run his fingers through the unruly curls, stopping when he reached Sherlock's scalp. "You're really lucky, though, you could think a few steps ahead of them. That way no one could suspect anything."

  
"I was lucky to escape in the first place." Sherlock whispered, and shuddered involuntarily at the unpleasant memory. He had not still forgiven Mycroft for that( and for a plenty of more things), but it was undeniable that he would have been long gone, if it hadn't been for his brother. 

  
"What do you mean  _escape_?"Sherlock looked up at John, when he felt the older man literally freeze beside him. John was staring at him intently, but his eyes were wide from obvious fear.

  
Oh. So he hadn't told John yet. 

  
"Is there something you forgot to mention to me about the time you've been away?" The good doctor asked gently, while his arms around the detective tightened, as if that act alone could somehow shield Sherlock away from the world.

  
"Irrelevant." He said in a small voice and curled himself on John's lap, trying to encourage the man to go back to petting his hair. He loved when it were his John's fingers dancing through his locks; warm, loving, gentle...always so gentle, and not interrogating, sharp or hurting or tugging or...

  
"Sherlock?" the hesitant call of his worried boyfriend was what snapped him out of his reverie and he couldn't help but sigh.

  
"Tea?" Sherlock requested quietly, hoping that would somehow ease the tension, and he closed his eyes, feeling John caress the back of his neck once again.

  
"Right. We'll have some tea then." The good doctor agreed easily, but Sherlock knew very well what that tone meant. It said  _come and have a drink anyway and talk about it,_  and there was on his face a haughty look that brooked no denial.

  
The detective sighed once again, feeling even more tired at the thought of speaking to John, about things that happened so long ago and no longer mattered. To him, at least. 

* * *

  
They lit only one lamp at the other end of the kitchen, but that was quite enough for them. John, naturally, took to the kettle to fill it with water, after nudging Sherlock gently on towards the table. And the detective obeyed by scuttling to sit at the table in his usual place, all too happy to avoid the coming conversation. And while the good doctor was fetching their mugs, Sherlock rubbed at his eyes tiredly, trying to clear away the sleepiness. 

  
Once the tea was ready and served, the detective began sipping and not really talking. John, being the ever patient man he was, didn't urge him to; ready to wait for as long as necessary. And he probably wouldn't have if Sherlock didn't manage to maintain a whole fifeen-minute silence, all the while being completely focused on his tea, therefore not speaking. 

  
When Sherlock's hand reached for his mug again, John smoothly took it in his, gently interrupting. "So, will you tell me what's this all about?"

  
At some point, Sherlock was grateful that John skipped all the nonsense talk and went straight to the point. He actually appreciated the doctor's directness and thought it better to start off with the story and get it done with. 

  
So, he began speaking(of course, not before he let out a dramatic sigh to show John how displeased he was with the idea, to which he was rewarded with an impatient and an  _I'm sure you can live it_ look), making sure not to leave out any critical points or events. He didn't fancy another conversation like this, thank you very much. He quickly went through the few stages of is hiding, only because he had already told John most of it, then, when he reached  _Serbia_ , he made sure he kept his eyes locked on the table. 

  
"I got captured. I thought I had been careful, but not enough apparently. I must admit it was rather unfortunate and a bit embarrassing on my part. I didn't anticipate such...enthusiasm from them to get hold of me. Just a group of soldiers, ready to interrogate anyone who would be able to... " Sherlock's face was mostly in shadow, as he spoke, only his eyes glistening. His face was thin and had grown a trifle thinner in the two years that he had been on run. His figure was slight, but the look in his blue eyes was as intense as it had ever been.

  
"I...I had to deduce things...to have them get away from me. They were that close to causing some permanent damage to me. And if it hadn't been for Mycroft..." He trailed off, taking another sip of the tea and noted how silent the room had gone, once he stopped talking. John hadn't uttered a syllable since his probing question and when the detective finally dared to steal a glance of the man, he realized that John hadn't moved much either. Or breathed for the matter.

  
"John? Was that too...?"

  
Unexpectedly John's hands reached up to cup Sherlock's face; reassuring and shielding, and the detective found himself leaning into the touch. "I thought..." John started, but his voice broke, and he had to clear his throat. "I mean, I knew that you weren't exactly on holiday...those two years. But I thought that the worst that could happen, was you, getting hurt while tracking down assassins... _hurt_ , but not like this...Christ, I assumed Mycroft was keeping an eye on you, keeping you safe..."

  
Sherlock's stomach dropped, when he saw John's eyes glistening with what seemed like actual tears and he quipped in hurriedly. "He was. He was the one who got me out of that hole in the..."

  
"But you've been through hell.  _Hell_ , Sherlock! And I'm learning about this after what? A year after you have come back from the de-"

  
"John, I appreciate the sentiment. I really do. But it does not matter. Not now. Not when I'm back and very much alive."

  
"Does not mat- Yes, it actually  _does_  matter!" John snapped, then eased the hard lines of his jawline into a less angry expression. He rested his forehead against Sherlock's, pressing as close as physically possible. He murmured. "It matters to me, you nutter. God, the look on your face when I tried to wake you, I never want to see you look like that again. Not  _ever_  again."

  
Sherlock hummed contently, as the good doctor brushed a finger over one of his sharp cheekbones, stroking at the smooth skin. John knew what a single caress from him could do to Sherlock, and the detective, on his turn, knew bloody well, that John was doing it now on purpose; trying to coax answers out of him. But he couldn't care less. He felt wretched, tired and dying to get some sleep.

  
"Why haven't you told me you were having nightmares, before?" John murmured, and Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

  
"The subject hasn't come up."

  
"I'm fairly certain, the subject has come up enough times."

  
"You were too busy getting married, remember?"The detective retorted, without thinking and the same instant began apologizing, with a horrified expression on his face.

  
John choked out a laugh and pressed a tender kiss to the tip of Sherlock's nose."I just wish you'd have told me, I could've at least tried to help..."

  
"Please, John. Your own PTSD is troublesome enough for you. Need you bother yourself with a lunatic like me? And for the record, I'm fine."

  
"No, you're absolutely not-"

  
"I will be, then."

  
"But you are not fine now." John replied firmly and brushed away an errant lock of hair from Sherlock's face. "And that is my privilege."

  
Why it was John's privilege, Sherlock would never understand. Just like he would not understand how someone as amazing and endlessly fascinating as John, could ever love someone like... _him_. But, somehow, by some miracle, he was holding John Watson's heart in his hands, and he was not about to let go of it; finding it all too easy to selfishly hold John's love close to him, to cherish it and believe that he truly deserved it.

  
Sherlock let out a long yawn, feeling engulfed in the warmth of John's embrace. He sank more towards John, now half draped over the man, with his face pressed against John's throat. He felt the older man's soft breath against his skin; calming him, promising to keep him safe and it was almost enough to make his eyes droop shut.

  
"Come on." John urged gently, wounding a hand through the younger man's unruly hair, brushing across Sherlock's scalp, eliciting a shiver. "Let's get you to bed."

  
Sherlock blinked again; his eyes tired and dark rimmed, and sighed. "I can't."

  
"But you need to rest-"

  
"No, John, I  _can't_! I can't sleep!" Sherlock snapped so abruptly, that it surprised them both. "I'm trying, every night. Do you think I want  _this_?" his voice trailed off into a whisper and he moved away from John's touch. "It's not just...the memories. I...I feel as if the moment I wake up, I'll wake and  _this_  will be the dream. That I'll still be in Serbia or God knows where else, that you'll end up being just a hallucination, a voice in my head...that you won't be only a room away from me. That you won't be... _with_  me."

  
"Oh, Sherlock..." John breathed regretfully, "Why haven't you said anything...? I would've..."

  
Sherlock gave the doctor's hand a light squeeze, interrupting John's babbling. He said with a tiny smile playing on his lips. "Not even John Watson can stop the nightmares."

  
"No." John agreed and carefully reached for Sherlock, once again. If anything, a bit hesitant in his movements, as if the younger man would bolt from right under his hands. "But I would've stayed with you."

  
"W-what?"

  
John hurried to explain, grasping the detective's hand a little tighter than necessary. "I'd sleep by your side, if that would help...I mean if you'd want me to, that is."

  
The fact, that John's determination transformed into a despairing plea, unsettled something inside of Sherlock. His John should never,  _ever_  feel unsure of how Sherlock felt. Of how much he loved. And so Sherlock all but wrapped his long limbs around the good doctor, to show him just that.

  
"Yes." Sherlock said, his voice barely a breath and nestled his head into the crook of John's neck. "I'd want that very much."

  
"Good. That's good."

  
And Sherlock still didn't understand and probably never would, why John was so eager and willing to open his arms, his heart for him. Unconditionally offering him so much love, that sometimes Sherlock nearly didn't know  _what_  to do with it. 

  
That night they slept in Sherlock's bed, with John's hand curled possessively around Sherlock's waist, and the detective's head resting on John's chest, listening to the solid heartbeats. And for the first time in a long time, Sherlock slept peacefully and deeply, believing that things would truly turn for the better.

**Author's Note:**

> I know that this was mostly a pointless fluffy/angsty ficlet, but you know, once you start writing these faggots, you can't really stop. 
> 
> So, thank you for reading and if you'll come across any mistakes or typos or you'd like to beta-read this story, I'll deeply appreciate the effort due to my lack of betareaders and lazy arse. 
> 
> If there are any questions or suggestions, here's my tumblr page.
> 
> janhawkins.tumblr


End file.
